Pretermit
by Whurmy
Summary: "To disregard intentionally or allow to pass unnoticed or unmentioned." Nine hundred and fourteen words of pure angst. You'll hate me for it. Rated M for a good reason. Demena Demi/Selena


**Author's Note: You know, I don't really have much to say about this one.**

**I do not own Selena Gomez. **

**I do not own Demi Lovato.**

-x-

Selena sniffed as she wiped her nose on the long sleeve of the dark blue hoodie. Her throat muscles constricted and she tried her best not to cry, tried her best to swallow the growing lump in her throat. She wouldn't break down. Not right now. She could cry later.

The old Polaroid picture felt like lead in her hands. A young girl with dark hair, bright eyes and a gap tooth smile beamed up at her. She could see a younger version of herself beside the girl, but she didn't care about her right now.

Her chest rumbled with a sob that she covered with a cough and she squeezed her eyes shut against the bitter tears biting at her eyes. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and plowed on.

She could remember the last time she'd seen those bright brown eyes looking at her. She remembered the halfhearted smile, the tiny wave, the mix of reluctance and desperation as she stepped out of the house. The faint click of the latch.

It was just a door then. Just another good bye and "I'll text you later." But now Selena knows what it really was. It was the barrier Selena hadn't had the courage to tear down. She wished she could say she wanted to go after Demi right then, to stop her before she could get in that car and drive away. But she couldn't say that. She remembered being relieved that Demi left, that Selena didn't have to deal with all _that_ right now. Neither of them wanted to admit what was going on.

Demi went on tours, Selena did movies. Years went by, boyfriends came and went. Their texts turned into passive-aggressive tweets and their good night phone calls turned into screaming matches.

Selena's heart clenched and her stomach twisted when she remembered all the things they'd said to each other. All the things she'd said to Demi. Everything she didn't mean. Everything she wanted to say. Everything she didn't.

She wanted to say that Demi could have just asked for her help, that she could have just called, but that would be a lie, too. The signs were there, dark and ominous and so obvious, but Selena ignored them. She was too mad, too stupid. Demi _was_ asking for help, with every bottle she drank and every tweet about a song with painful lyrics.

Overdose. Between her purging and sold-out shows, her body could hardly keep up with day to day life. Some would say it was a miracle she kept going as long as she did, but Selena knew better. Demi was sick of waiting. So she downed more bottles, snorted more lines. Demi wasn't scared.

Selena took a fast, shaky breath and dug her palm into her right eye. She remembered the phone call. She remembered Nick's voice, thick with tears he was holding in for her sake. She remembered flying out to Sao Paulo, seeing Demi hooked up the machines keeping her alive. She didn't leave Demi's side. She stayed, clutching Demi's hand and telling her how she was going to kick her ass when she woke up. (Right after she hugged her until even the respirator couldn't help her.)

Selena didn't understand medical terms. The doctors had to dumb it down and very slowly tell her if Demi was getting better or worse. Her condition was as stable as it could be for a 95-pound sixteen year old who overdosed on cocaine, but it wasn't stable enough.

Her ears rang as she recalled how the flat line sounded at three in the morning. She closed her eyes and gripped the old picture tighter. She remembered saying Demi's name like she was trying to get her attention. A flock of nurses and the tall, kind doctor that usually wore a gentle smile rushed into the room, looks of panicked excitement on their faces. Selena fought to stay by Demi's side, she had to stay. But Brian's arms were around her, lifting her off the ground so she'd stop trying to run from him. She screamed, clawed at his arms and kicked the door as he pulled her out of the room, but he wasn't letting her go.

She tried one last time, her voice shrill and desperate.

"Demi! Demi, please!" It was too late. She couldn't hear her. Selena broke, her screaming and begging turned to sobs. "Demi..." The closest she had to a good bye.

Demi Lovato died at 3:42 a.m., October 28th.

Selena clutched the photo to her chest, ducked her head and let her tears fall onto the white back of one of the last things she had left.

Demi was never going to wear the real version of the ruffled white dresses they had on in the photograph. She was never going to leave the hospital in a wheel chair with a tiny baby boy or girl in her arms, looking up at her with the same light brown eyes. She wasn't going to take that beautiful masterpiece that was their first macaroni painting and hang it proudly on the fridge for them. She wasn't going to hear Selena say "I love you."

"I do." She whispered to the eight year old girl in the picture. "I do."


End file.
